The bond rips through me mid-sentence. "—need the eastern patrol doubled until we know what Sarveil's warden is—" I stop. Low in my chest, behind the ribs, left side. That's where I carry her. Every pack member sits somewhere different in the bond—Axan steady at the base of my skull, the patrol wolves a dull hum across my shoulders, the pups barely there, flickering at the edges. But Kestria has always been here. Left side, between the ribs, de ep. Blood bond. Family. Right now it's screaming. Her terror floods through, not words—the bond doesn't carry words —just fear-pain-danger slamming into me until my breath catches. Already running. "Keer?" Axan's voice cuts off behind me. The clearing falls away. The cottage. She's at the fucking cottage again. I warned her. Stay away from there. The human is a liability, a risk, a complication we don't need. She went anyway. She always does. Another spike hits. Worse. Pain now—real pain, not fear. The bond cuts. Hot where it should be warm. Sharp where it should be steady. Her blood. Someone is making my sister bleed. Shirt over my head, boots kicked off, trousers shoved down and abandoned in the dirt. Can't afford torn clothes, can't afford delay, can't afford anything exc ept speed. The change takes me between one stride and the next—bones cracking, reforming—and then I'm down on four legs and running. Trees blurring past. Undergrowth parting. I know this path—run it more times than I want to admit, hanging back at the tree line, watching her laugh. The bond pulses. Weaker now. Far past our territory. The connection thins this far out, the pack behind me gone faint and background, a low hum I carry everywhere. Kestria is what matters. The blood bond doesn't care about distance the way the others do—it fades, weakens, but it holds. Exc ept the fading is wrong. Not distance-fading. Injury-fading. Her signal going thin at the edges. Fraying. And— Don't. Lungs burning. Muscles screaming. The cottage still miles away and Kestria hurt and someone going to pay for this. Someone going to bleed. Then it stabilizes. Still weak. Still wrong. But steady.
Alive. She's alive. Faster. Miles pass under my paws. The sun climbs and the shadows shorten and I run until my legs go numb, until the territory markers fall behind me, until the forest thins and thickens and thins again and then I catch it—blood. Faint at first, then stronger. Blood and horses and human sweat and fear. Multiple humans, recent, some of them wounded. And underneath it all, threading through everything else: my sister. Her scent tangled with a smell sharp and herbal I can't place. I slow at the tree line and shift back. Bones grinding, muscles retightening. Done this too many times for the pain to land. Naked. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters exc ept what I'm about to find. The clearing's a mess. Blood soaking into the dirt—some human, some not. Torn clothes piled by the woodpile—Kestria's. Shredded. Drag marks from the worktable to the tree line—a deer carcass, half-eaten, crawling with flies. Hoofprints leading away into the forest. Men were here. They're gone now. The cottage door is closed. I move forward, quiet. Every instinct screaming to burst through. The hunter holds back. The door isn't locked. Never is. I push it open. Kestria. Alive. Bandaged. Sle eping on the floor by the hearth, covered with a rough blanket, face too pale but her chest moving. Breathing. Steady. De ep. The bond hums low and warm between us now—close enough to feel properly again—and it says healing, resting, alive. My vision whites at the edges. My hand finds the doorframe. Holds on. Blood and tallow and dried herbs. And underneath all of it— warmth. Unfamiliar. Her. The human. Then I see her. White hair pulled back in a braid, pink threaded through it. Blood on her hands—dried brown under her fingernails, purple moonbright staining up to the knuckles, the rest caked with blood to the elbow. Sitting against the wall with her knees drawn up, head tipped back, eyes half- closed. Dark circles under her eyes. Shoulders caved in. Small. Soft where wolves are lean, the fabric of her dress pulling across curves. I look too long. Fuck. My breath pulls short. I look at Kestria instead. The human looks up at me.
Blue eyes. Clear and tired and taking in my face without flinching. The scars. The missing eye. The torn ear. Waiting for her to look away. Nothing. Just looking. Then her gaze drops. Takes in the rest of me. Snaps back up. Color floods her face. Immediate—cheeks, ears, throat. She tries to find somewhere safe to look and fails. I glance down. Right. Naked. Wolves shift in front of each other all the time. Nobody cares. I'd forgotten— Oh. Also hard. Half-hard, at least. Getting there—fast. "She's stable." Her voice cuts through. High-pitched, almost squeaky, too light for a blood-stained cottage. I've heard it before—snippets through the trees, laughter too bright for the de ep forest. Up close it's— "The fever broke a few hours ago. She woke up, we talked, she went back to sle ep about twenty minutes ago. The wound's still healing but the poison's receding and she should—" "Move." She blinks. "What?" "Move." I'm already crossing to Kestria, dropping to my knees beside her. The human scrambles out of my way. I press my hand to my sister's forehead. Warm but not burning. The bandages around her torso are clean, applied correctly, tight enough to hold but not so tight they'll cut off blood flow. Better than most wolves could manage. Kestria's heartbeat thrums under my palm when I check her pulse— strong, maybe a little fast, but strong. Her breathing is de ep. Healing sle ep. The bond confirms it. "Here." I look up. She's holding out a blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. Working hard to ke ep them there. "For—" She gestures vaguely at me. All of me. "You're—there's a lot of—just take it." She shoves the blanket at me. "I'd be more comfortable if you were covered. Not that your body doesn't deserve to be observed—it should. Very observed. Thoroughly, even. In a gallery or something. Extensive viewing hours." Her eyes widen. "I mean. Not by me. Or. Fine, by me. But not right now. I mean, not ever—no, that's also wrong, not ever is a strong statement, I don't know you. I just—put the blanket on. Please. Before I ke ep talking." I take the blanket. Wrap it around my waist. Rough wool, scratchy, barely covering what matters, but enough.
Her shoulders drop with visible relief. "What happened?" "Oh, you know. Normal day." She's still wiping her hands on a rag that stopped being clean hours ago. "Nugget got into the dye pot, so she's pink now. Kestria brought me a deer she definitely didn't hunt. Then Theron showed up—the one who calls himself the Forest Warden—with five men on horses. They tried to take me. Kestria shifted right there in my yard. Got stabbed with something that turned out to be concentrated moonbright because apparently that's a thing that exists. I used the paste I've been making for a decade without knowing what it actually was. Fever broke a few hours ago. Oh, and I found out werewolves are real." She pauses. "That last part probably should've come first." I know that name. Theron. One of the ones pushing for more aggressive containment for years. Kestria shifted. In front of five men. In front of a warden. Hot first. Then cold. Five witnesses. Five humans who saw a woman become a wolf and lived to carry that back to their settlement. Our secret—generations of it, decades of my work ke eping the pack hidden— gone. My fingers press into my palms. Release. Press in. Kestria couldn't stay away. Too late now. Deal with it later. "—and then she asked if we were okay, which, yes, we're okay, she almost died, we're processing, but then I had to yell at her for the lying which, fair, and then we both cried a little, but she says the wound's healing and she says it usually only takes a few days for wolves to—you're staring." Her arms cross. "I'm—" Shit. "—checking for injuries." "On me?" "You were in a fight." "I hid under the table." She gestures at it. "Very heroic." "Effective." "I thought so." She pauses. "Still staring, though." "What's your name." The question surprises her. "Melori." Blue eyes on my face. Holding. "Mel, if you want. My friends call me that. Which—I mean, not that you're my friend, not that you can't be, I'm not saying you can't be, I'd be fine with it, great even, like who wouldn't want to be friends with a sexy mountain man. Wolf? Mountain wolf? Anyways—you're Kestria's brother and she's my friend so by extension you could be—but also not if you don't want to be, no pressure, I don't need to be your friend, we barely know each other, you can just call me Melori, that's fine, that's my actual name, so—" I know. I've known it for years.
"—so, yeah. Melori works. Or Mel. Whatever you want. I don't care. I'm just going to stop talking now." "Melori." "Mel." "I heard you." "And you chose the longer version." Her face lights up. "Noted." That smile. Don't. "How long until she can move?" "Tomorrow morning, probably. Maybe tonight if she pushes it." I nod and stand. The blanket threatens to slip. I catch it. Her eyes track the movement. Drop to where the blanket meets my hip. A small sound es capes her—something between a squeak and a choke. "Sorry. That was—I didn't mean to make a noise. My throat just— sometimes throats do noises. Ind ependently. Without permission." I'm still hard. With her looking at me—blue eyes, blood on her hands, exhausted and soft—and my body doesn't care about any of it. Doesn't care that she's human, doesn't care that my sister is three feet away. Her eyes go wide. "You can look," I say. "I wasn't—" "You were." "I was not." Her voice hits a pitch that shouldn't exist, indignation cutting through the exhaustion. "I was looking at the—at your—at nothing. I was looking at nothing. I was looking at the wall. The floor. The dust on the floor. There's a lot of dust. I should swe ep. Later. After you put pants on. Not that I'm rushing you, take your time, I'll just be over here NOT looking at—" She stops. "—the floor. I'll be looking at the floor." "The wall behind me is very interesting." "It's a nice wall." "It's mud and sticks." "I like mud and sticks. They're architecturally sound." She tilts her head. "Look at the grain of the wood above your shoulder. Really look. There's a whorl pattern that suggests stress during growth—probably a branch came off when the tree was younger. Fascinating. I could look at this wall for hours." "You're looking at me."
"Fascinating wall." The corner of my mouth pulls. "I need clothes." "Right." She stands, her knees popping. Nearly trips, catches herself on the worktable. "I have—some things. They won't fit well, you're —" She gestures at me again. "—a lot bigger than anything I own. In every sense. Not that I noticed—I noticed, obviously, there's no way not to notice, you're RIGHT THERE, but I'm not commenting on it, I'm just making clothing observations, which are relevant, because of the clothing. Situation. Which we're fixing. Right now." She's rummaging through a chest, her back to me. Muttering. "Kill me now. Do I ever fucking shut up? No. No I don't. You just ke ep going. Sexy mountain wolf. Sexy. Mountain. Wolf. Who says that? Me, apparently. That's who. Fan-fucking-tastic." Wolf hearing. She doesn't know. "Here." She holds out fabric without turning around. "It's old. Probably too small. But it's better than the blanket." I take it. Some kind of long shirt, rough-woven, meant for someone shorter and narrower by a significant margin. I pull it on. It strains across my shoulders and barely reaches mid-thigh. "You can turn around." She does. Takes in my appearance. She blinks. Once. Twice. Her lips press together. "Don't." "I didn't say anything." "You were going to." "I was going to say it suits you." The squeak climbs, teasing. "Very... breezy. Really complementing the—everything. The tunic is, uh, putting in overtime. Both arms. Both shoulders. Bless it. Bless this tunic, actually. It's doing the Lord's work, wherever the Lord is in this situation, I don't—I don't know, I've never really—is there a werewolf Lord? Is that a thing? Anyway, the tunic. Yes. Breezy." I grunt. Almost got me with that one. Settle against the wall where I can watch the door and my sister at the same time. The tunic rides up. Don't bother fixing it. The cottage isn't safe. Can't move Kestria yet. We wait. She checks Kestria's bandages. Gentle fingers, looking for se epage, making sure the wrapping hasn't shifted. She bends forward to adjust the blanket over Kestria's feet and the fabric of her dress pulls across her hips. I adjust the tightening blanket.
Look at the wall behind me. Fascinating wall. She's humming under her breath. Something tuneless. "You should rest." "So should you." "I'm watching the door." "The door's fine." She shrugs. "But you do you." The bond shifts. Warmer. Kestria surfacing. She stirs under her blanket. Makes a sound. "Keer." Her voice is rough. Tired. She squints at me, and then her gaze travels down and lands on the tunic. A weak smile. "You're wearing a dress." "It's a tunic." "It's definitely a dress." "Shut up." She laughs, then winces. "Ow." "Then don't be stupid." "Can't help it. Runs in the family." She looks around the cottage, finds Mel by the wall. "Mel. You haven't sl ept." "I'm fine." "You look terrible." "Thank you. Very kind." They share a look. Something private. Years of it. "We need to move." Both of them look at me. "The cottage isn't safe. Those men will come back, or send others. We go to pack territory." Kestria nods. Expected that. Melori's head tilts. "We?" "You know what she is." I nod toward Kestria. "You know what I am. You've seen wolves shift. That can't be undone." "So I'm—what? A prisoner?" "You're a liability. Out here, alone, with what you know." I hold her gaze. "In my territory, you're protected." "Protected." She turns the word over. "Huh. That's a big word. Fancy. Is that Alpha for 'tough shit, you're coming with me'?" Knew it. Kestria told her. My jaw tightens. "Kestria talks too much."
"Kestria talks the right amount." Melori's chin lifts. "She told me what you are. What you do. And I'd rather know who's giving orders before I follow them anywhere." "I'm not giving orders." "You just said we need to move. That sounded like an order." "It's a fact. This place isn't safe." "See, when you say it that way, it's much better." She stands, brushing off her skirt. "Fine. I'll come. But I have conditions." "Conditions? You don't get conditions." "I have conditions," she r epeats, already moving to the shelves. "One bag. Give me a few minutes." She's fast. No hesitation. She pulls jars off the shelf, holds each one to the light, ke eps or leaves. Two piles—take and abandon. The moonbright paste. The concentrated tonic. Dried comfrey, rosemary, thyme. Bandages. A mortar she wraps in cloth and wedges into the bottom of the bag. "The blue jar or the brown jar," she mutters, holding both. "Blue's concentrated. Brown's the diluted tonic. I need both. Obviously I need both. But the brown jar leaks and if it gets on the other supplies everything's going to smell like a swamp died—" She wraps the brown jar in cloth. Multiple layers. Tight. Shoves both into the bag. "Does your territory have buildings? Tents? Am I sle eping on the ground?" "There are structures." "Structures... Great information, thank you." "You'll see when we get there." "Oh good. Mystery shelter. My favorite kind." She wraps a bundle of dried herbs and stuffs it into the bag. "What about food? Do you hunt, forage, trade? Do you cook, or does everyone just gnaw on raw meat while standing around looking intimidating?" "We cook." "Well, that's something." She holds up a small clay pot, considers it, puts it back. "How far is it?" "Half a day. Walking." "Kestria can't walk half a day. Not with that wound." "I know." "So we'll go slower." The bag is nearly full now. She cinches it tight, tests the weight on her shoulder, adjusts. "No healer in your pack?" "No." "No healer." She stops long enough to look at me. "You've got— how many wolves? And no one dedicated to fixing them when they break?" "We heal fast. Don't need one."
"You need one when you've got moonbright poison in you." She reaches for one last jar, pauses, swaps it for a different one. "That's the whole reason your people k ept showing up at my door. Because 'healing fast' doesn't work on moonbright." She's right. I say nothing. The bag goes by the door. She straightens. Wipes her hands on her skirt. "I can't walk that far." Kestria shifts under the blanket. "Not yet." "I know." I look at Melori. "How much can you carry?" "What you're looking at. My supplies. Some clothes." She pauses. "And Nugget." "What?" "My chicken." "... Your... chicken." "She's a good layer." Defensive. Arms crossing. "You're bringing a chicken." "She's coming with me." "To pack territory." "Yes." "A chicken." "The other two can fend for themselves—they're half-wild anyway, they'll range into the forest and be fine. But Nugget's different. She trusts me. She comes when I call. She sle eps at my door." Blood under her fingernails. Jaw set. "I'm not leaving her." I exhale. She's going to ask for things. And I'm going to give them to her. I look at Kestria. She's grinning, holding her side. "Don't argue. You'll lose." A human and a chicken. In my pack. In my territory. "Fine. We leave soon." Melori nods and turns away. One bag. She called me Alpha. No drop in her voice. No lowered eyes. Soon she'll see what it means. How they drop their eyes. How they st ep back.
And then she'll be careful around me. My jaw tightens. She's outside now. The indignant squawking of a chicken, Melori's voice climbing higher as she argues with it. "Stop that. Stop—I said stop. We're leaving. You're coming. This isn't a negotiation." The chicken screams at her. "I don't care what you think. Get in the basket." More screaming. "Nugget. Nugget. I will leave you for the foxes." The chicken apparently decides to cooperate. Kestria is laughing. Holding her wounded side, tears streaming down her face. "She threatened the chicken with foxes—" She can't finish. "She actually—" Melori comes back inside carrying a wicker basket with a pink- colored chicken missing half its tail feathers. The chicken is still loudly furious. She sets the basket down without looking at either of us, face flushed. "Not a word." "Wasn't going to say anything," Kestria wheezes. "You're laughing." "I'm crying. From pain. Completely unrelated." I walk to the door. Push it open. Night air. Cold. Pine and coming rain. Behind me, she moves through the cottage one last time. Quick. Her footst eps pause at the hearth, the worktable, near the window. Then moving on. Then she's beside me. Bag over her shoulder, basket in hand. The chicken has settled into sullen silence. "Ready." Half-dead on her feet. Leaving everything behind and not crying about it. My hands won't unclench. I st ep out into the dark. "Then let's go."